Target Omega

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The scenic drive south along the western shore of Cayuga Lake reminded Garin of his college days, when he would travel from Cleveland to Cornell at the beginning of each semester. On his left, boat and fishing docks appeared sporadically, extending into the smooth waters long rumored to harbor a Loch Ness — like creature. Rising to his immediate right were miles of low hills covered with the vineyards of Finger Lakes wine country.

The sun had just dipped below those hills as he approached Spencer from the north. The eastern sky was already midnight blue and the few passing motorists had turned on their headlights.

According to Joe’s directions, the Burns farm was another four to five miles south down Route 96 and then another half mile east along a narrow undedicated lane named Turnberry Road. The farmhouse was on the right and was the sole residence on Turnberry.

Garin would employ the same maneuver he’d used at Katy’s house and continue south past Turnberry to the next road, approaching the Burns farm from the rear. As he got closer to Turnberry, the road dipped downhill into a shallow valley darkened by the surrounding hills, which absorbed the last remnants of twilight. He slowed as he passed Turnberry but saw nothing. The road disappeared into blackness less than one hundred yards from the intersection.

It was nearly another mile before Garin reached an undedicated gravel road that branched to the left. Turning onto the road, he drove another half mile, searching for an opening in the woods that lined both sides. He found a gap between two large oaks on the left and drove between them and over bumpy ground until coming to rest fifty feet from the road. Garin turned off the lights and ignition, got out, and satisfied himself that the car was invisible from the road. He opened the trunk and took out his M4 rifle, flashlight, and a gym bag containing clothes, toiletries, and nutritional bars.

As he walked north toward the rear of the Burns farm, he contemplated using the flashlight, but his eyes quickly grew accustomed to the darkness, allowing him to navigate safely through the woods, provided he moved slowly.

He walked for approximately a quarter mile before coming to a clearing. Standing at the edge of the tree line, he could see the rear of the Burns farmhouse another quarter mile or so beyond a grassy field that looked like it might have sustained livestock at one time. On the left, or west, side of the house was a fairly sizable barn. On the east side was a large field of corn that ran north from the tree line toward Turnberry half a mile away.

The farmhouse was completely dark. Garin saw no vehicles or any signs of human activity. He put the gym bag and flashlight down, raised the M4, and scanned the surroundings through its scope. The place was vacant.

As he continued to peer through the scope, Garin’s ears picked up a familiar rhythmic sound over the horizon. He trained the scope above the farmhouse’s roof and quickly identified the source of the sound. Sweeping swiftly toward the farm from the north were four aircraft, the configuration of which Garin immediately recognized as that of an MH-6 Little Bird helicopter.

Garin retreated into the woods and sank to the ground as the Little Birds skimmed the tops of the trees north of the house and banked over the cornfield before descending to within a few feet of the grassy field. Each of the four helos carried four passengers — two riding pods on each side — besides the pilot. The four carried rifles with collapsible stocks. They were outfitted in all-black tactical gear, Nomex balaclavas covering their faces and night-vision goggles over their eyes.

The figures leapt to the ground almost in unison. Six fanned out with impressive precision and rushed the farmhouse, weapons raised. The remaining ten formed a perimeter approximately fifty feet from the house and barn and then fell to the ground, weapons trained on the building. The overall scene, even to an experienced operator like Garin, was nothing short of mesmerizing.

Garin watched with a mixture of fascination and foreboding as the raiders methodically checked the buildings. From a distance, their highly coordinated movements appeared choreographed, almost balletic. There was no hesitation, no wasted effort. Garin knew he wasn’t watching a local SWAT team, not even a crack one. Before him, he saw the uncompromising proficiency of a world-class special operations unit.

This was both a bewildering and an ominous development. There were only five in the world who knew Garin was here, and those five people were in an undetectable bunker that only he knew about. How did the team presently going through the Burns farmhouse know to look here?

A faint feeling of dread came over Garin as he analyzed the possibilities. The most straightforward answer to his question was that the team got the information from Joe or Katy, but Garin thought the odds of anyone having located the bunker in the seven hours since he’d left it were practically zero. Even less when combined with the odds of prying loose the information from the sergeant major, or the even lower odds of extracting it from Katy. But that, of course, was before the kids were factored in. Using them as leverage increased the likelihood of disclosure to a near certainty. But again, only if the bunker had been detected. The problem was that Garin wouldn’t be able to reach Joe for another eight hours — possibly the longest eight hours of Garin’s life.

The other option was nearly as remote. To be plausible, it required his pursuer to have not just vast resources, but exceptional luck. Of the millions of possible locations for Garin to go to, someone had to conclude that Garin would choose an all but abandoned central New York farmhouse belonging to the family of his sister’s husband.

Either way, Garin thought, he was facing a formidable adversary.

The team searched the premises for twenty minutes before boarding the Little Birds and departing in the direction from which they’d come. Garin remained prone and checked his watch. A little more than seven hours before he could contact Joe. Until then, there was nothing he could do. He wasn’t going into the house; he couldn’t take the risk. He laid his rifle at his side and continued to watch the area. Twenty minutes later he drifted off to sleep.